(Taurog 1965) Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine
(Groening & Sandoval 2010) Futurama: Ep.98 ― The Prisoner of Benda
(Groening, Jean & Reiss 1991) The Simpsons: Ep.37 ― Mr. Lisa Goes to Washington
(Marks 1964) Perry Mason: Ep.199 ― The Case of the Nervous Neighbor
(Groening & Chesney-Thompson 2010) Futurama: Ep.99 ― Lrrreconcilable Ndndifferences
(Stone 2015) Lake Placid vs. Anaconda
(Sharp 1963) The Kiss of the Vampire
(Groening & Muzquiz 2010) Futurama: Ep.100 ― The Mutants are Revolting
(Columbus 2002) Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
(Warren 1966) Manos: The Hands of Fate [Mystery Science Theatre version]
(Groening & Claffey 2010) Futurama: Ep.101 ― The Futurama Holiday Spectacular
(Cocteau 1946) La belle et la bête
(Landres 1958) The Flame Barrier
(Taurog 1965) Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine
27040. (Girolamo Frescobaldi) Messa Madona
27041. (Adam and the Ants) Dirk Wears White Sox
27042. (Gilles Binchois) Triste plaisir et douloureuse joie
27043. (Fuck Buttons) “Bright Tomorrow”; “Little Bloody Shoulder” [single]
27044. (Erroll Garner) Erroll Garner [Verve Jazz Masters #7]
27045. (Swans) Filth
27046. (New Order) Movement
27047. (Notker the Stammerer) Natus ante saecula
27048. (Sleater-Kinney) Dig Me Out
27049. (Veena Sahasrabuddhe) Raga Abhogi
27050. (Veena Sahasrabuddhe) Raga Jog
26257. (Marion Zimmer Bradley) The Planet Savers
26258. (Lester del Rey) The Mysterious Planet
26259. (Alan Armstrong) Whittington
26260. (Gloria Hatrick) Masks
(L. Sprague de Camp) The Purple Pterodactyl — The Adventures of W. Wilson Newbury,
. . . . 26261. (L. Sprague de Camp) Foreward [preface]
. . . . 26262. (L. Sprague de Camp) Balsamo’s Mirror [story]
. . . . 26263. (L. Sprague de Camp) The Lamp [story]
. . . . 26264. (L. Sprague de Camp) Algy [story]
. . . . 26265. (L. Sprague de Camp) The Menhir [story]
. . . . 26266. (L. Sprague de Camp) Darius [story]
. . . . 26267. (L. Sprague de Camp) United Imp [story]
What follows here took place during the second week of September. It was planned a long time ahead. A quarter century of friendship between myself and Filip Marek would be celebrated with an adventure.
We both love mountains. The Canadian Rockies has some of the finest, and most of them have not been gelded by roads, habitations and ski resorts. A lot of them are as wild as they were when their first human explorers came upon them pursuing mammoths down the “ice-free corridor” or perhaps filtered in from the Pacific coast. But the choice of destination had to be a compromise between the cost and time of access and the degree of wilderness. I had only one week free, and Filip could spare not much more.
I chose Mt. Assiniboine, a handsome 3,618m peak in the south-central Rockies, in BC but close to the Alberta boundary. The area around it is well protected. No roads are allowed in the 4,000ha region around it. Access is limited to hiking in or out on foot, or helicopter. There are a limited number of camping places, and environmental protection is strict. All supplies must be carried in, and nothing, not even a gum rapper, should be left behind. This area is in turn surrounded on all sides by larger national and provincial parks with less stringent protection, but still kept wild. The Kanasaskis Range, protecting its eastern flank, puts it into a different world from the ski resorts and tourist trail of Banff and Jasper. From the Alberta side, it’s rather like The Wall in Game of Thrones.
Our plan was to meet at a hostel in Calgary, then take a bus the next day to Canmore, Alberta, a ski and riding resort in the Bow Valley. We overnighted there, which gave us an evening to explore the town, climbing up to some hoodoos that overlooked the town, and amusing ourselves looking at the absurd abundance of wild rabbits hopping around the town. Almost as numerous were Ford 550 cab trucks. The local library was equipped with a climbing wall — not something you expect in a library in Toronto. Its extensive local history collection revealed that Canmore was originally a coal mining town, first settled by dour-looking immigrant Finns of such prodigeous fertility that they would have inspired the envy of the rabbits. The present population is the usual multi-racial, multi-lingual Canadian mixture, with a noticeable presence of local Blackfoot, Sarcee, and Cree.
In Canmore, we faced the first strategic uncertainty in our plans. To reach Mt. Assiniboine, we would hike 28km from the trailhead, going over Assiniboine Pass to a small log cabin near Lake Magog, where we would stay for three nights. This entry hike was supposed to take between seven and ten hours. Overnighting on the trail was not encouraged, since it’s grizzly country. So we would have to start reasonably early. But to get to the trailhead at Mt. Shark, we needed to go through the narrow pass between Mt. Rundle and Ha Ling Peak, then follow a 40km gravel road. There is no public transportation along this road, so we had no choice but to get up early and hope that we could hitch-hike to the trailhead and get there with a sufficient window of daylight. Fortunately, we got a ride within half an hour, with a charming woman who knew the mountains and trails.
The second uncertainty was our physical condition. Both of us had leg injuries. I had an as-yet unhealed stress fracture in my left leg, that was still occasionally painful, and Filip has some kind of ongoing plantar problem. Filip is a big, muscular guy, much more athletic than I am. I’m a pudgy little guy, nobody’s visual image of an outdoorsman. Though I have a long history of outdoor activities, in recent years I’ve been pretty urban. My last hike on this scale — a long uphill grind in the mountains of Transylvania in 2007 — left me paralyzed with exhaustion, unable to walk the last klik to my goal. A short hike up Mont du Lac des Cygnes in Quebec, last spring, was easy enough, but didn’t indicate any great degree of spryness. Frankly, I had no idea if I would be able to do this. It’s customary for people to helicopter in to the mountain, then hike out over the pass, making most of the trip downhill. I had purposely arranged things in reverse, so that the test of our mettle would be at the start. The 28km hike would be uphill most of the way, starting with a 65m descent to the Upper Spray River, then a 650m rise to Assiniboine Pass.
Another uncertainty was the weather, always a gamble in the Rockies. We hiked under a grey, overcast sky. We were both resigned to the possibility that rainstorms or even snowfall might significantly reduce both visibility and comfort. In fact, the woman who gave us the ride had informed us that Lake Magog’s alpine valley was snowbound that morning, but was expected to melt off by the time we got there. While there was a general prediction of clearing weather in the next few days, mountains tend to chop up such predictions into micro-weather, with large variations between different enclaves.
As it turned out, the cool, grey weather was a blessing. The upward trek was not nearly as difficulty as I had feared, and we made rapid progress without working up a sweat. After only a few hours, we came upon a bull-moose. This was somewhat unusual, as moose are nocturnal. I have had a lot experience with this charmingly stupid animal. This one was a young male, with a rack of antlers raw red from either fighting or scratching. I wasn’t sure if it was rutting season here, but I knew it was so back in Ontario. Moose can be dangerous, if you get too close to them, especially rutting males, and we had turned a corner that brought us quite close to him. But he looked at us with bored disdain and walked away. This was to be our only encounter with a large animal. We had purchased a can of bear spray in Calgary, since it is more or less required, because there are numerous grizzlies in the area. However, grizzly-human encounters are rare. Usually, they hear the noise of humans from far off, or smell them in the air and avoid them. We met two parties of people making the more popular downward trip. At approximately the half-way point, the valley we followed climbed out of the forest and opened up into alpine meadow, hemmed in by spectacular cliffs. Only the last portion, where the trail had become muddy and narrow, and the climb over Assiniboine pass, rather steep, broken up, and still snowy, was any sort of challenge.
We made it to the cabin in good time. The snow had mostly melted, but Mt. Assiniboine was still invisible, hidden behind a mist of clouds. We were tired, but not exhausted. There was already a fire in the stove, and we met our cabin mates. We could not have been luckier. They were a charming family of Métis background: a husband and wife, a teenage daughter by an earlier marriage, and a dignified elderly aunt. The husband had once been a ranger at Assiniboine, and knew the place by heart. Two sons were with them, but were tenting in the bush, rather than staying in the cabin. They all had the quiet, soft-spoken calm and confidence that would make them an idealized sample of exemplo familia canadensis. I had expected to share the cabin with the inevitable Australians on walkabout, or some noisy macho types. This family was a blessing to us, making the whole experience significantly better than expected.
The following day was still overcast, and Mt. Assiniboine still remained hidden. The Lakes around the mountain are charmingly named: Gog, Magog, Og, Sunburst, Cerulean, Marvel, Gloria and Terrapin. Each is strikingly different in appearance. Given the weather, we decided to spend the next day walking the mostly level and undemanding trail to Og Lake, which turned out to be slightly creepy-looking and desolate, surrounded by bare rock and a wide beach of pebbles. By the time we returned to the cabin, my leg was acting up. I passed on a second hike, and spent time relaxing around the camp, while Filip headed up to Wonder Pass. He returned just as it was getting dark. He had actually crossed the pass and was able to look down at Marvel, Gloria and Terrapin lakes, but Mt. Assiniboine remained shrouded in cloud. We bunked down for the evening. I had worried that my chronic snoring would be a social problem, but it turned out that everybody snored. In the middle of the night, I woke and went out to pee. The sky had cleared and stars come out. The Northern Lights were shining. Not a spectacular display, with multi-coloured curtains, but at least a vivid glow and flicker. I told Filip about it, and he went out for a look, then the young girl came out as well.
The next day was clear and sunny. Mt. Assiniboine emerged fully and grandly. With it’s Matterhon-like shape, it dominates everything. The ice-bound pyramidal peak, even in a clear sky, leaves a smoke-like white plume of ice particles as the wind swirls past it. That’s why it’s named Assiniboine. The Assiniboine are a plains tribe who never lived anywhere near it. But George Dawson, Canada’s eminent 19th century geologist and explorer (author of Geology and Resources of the Region in the Vicinity of the 49th parallel from the Lake of the Woods to the Rocky Mountains, with Lists of Plants and Animals Collected, and Notes on the Fossils from the Killadeer Badlands) thought it resembled an Assiniboine teepee with smoke emerging from it’s top.
This was our big day. The weather was perfect. Sunny, but never too hot. The air was as clear as crystal. All around were spectacular mountains, cliffs, gorges, forests, glaciers, lakes, rocky wastes, mountain meadows, bogs, rivers, and giant boulders that might have been tossed by the gods playing marbles. But Assiniboine loomed over them all, like a mother surrounded by her children. First, we walked around lake Magog to the foot of the great boulder field that descends from the glaciers. Filip took a dip in the frigid lake, while I more rationally soaked up the sun in the mountain meadows, mentally playing Mahler’s fifth symphony in my head. I tested out the boulder field, but determined that it was far too unstable and crevace-filled to safely spend much time on. One boulder was about the size of a small house and looked like it had been lobbed to its place by a giant catapult. Every few minutes you could hear something falling off the mountain, the noise echoing on the surface of the lake. The area was so beautiful, it was difficult to force ourselves to move on, but we found and followed the trail that would take us around the northern flank of the mountain and past Sunburst Peak to a chain of three lakes, Sunburst, Cerulean and Elizabeth. Each of these lakes has a different character. Cerulean nestles against the gigantic, jagged wall of Sunburst Peak. This wall looks like a huge mountain, looming over the lake splendidly, but it is actually nothing more than an outlying arm of Assiniboine, dwarfed by the later. Elizabeth Lake is named after Elizabeth von Rummel, a Bavarian aristocrat whose family was dispossessed and impoverished by the outbreak of World War I, and fled to Canada to work as ranch hands. Elizabeth grew up to be the “Baroness of the Rockies”, an expert mountaineer and naturalist, utterly devoted to Assiniboine. We found her cabin, hardly any bigger than the one we were sleeping in, where she lived until her death in 1980.
Again, my leg started acting up, and I rested while Filip climbed a ridge that gave a view of Nestor Peak and some more valleys to the north and west. Filip pointed out that my tendency to take a faster pace probably brought on the pain. Usually, I pulled ahead of him on the trail while he kept to a slower pace, but in the end, he was often able to climb where I couldn’t. But forcing myself to slow down was difficult. After seeing the three lakes, we started up the switchback trail that led to high ridges called the Niblet, the Nublet, and the Nub. By this time, our beauty-experiencing circuits were overloaded, but every time we climbed higher and the forest momentary opened up for a view, there was another jolt of it. Finally, we came to this:
This is what we had been seeking, and we had found it. A place that would express, not only our friendship, but the best things within us. When you are at such a place, you realize the insipidness of most human pretensions to wisdom. The silliness of organized religion and ideologies, and the pathetic, childish squabbles and squalid obsessions that we find ourselves enslaved to, all become nothing in the cold, pure air around these hundred thousand cathedrals of nature. When some fatuous ass claims to be able to know all about God’s commandments, or the infallible Market, or the predestination of the Dialectic, or whatever else the marching morons are peddling this week or next, I will always have this scene in my head to keep me sane and unswindled.
Tired, but happy, we made our way down to the cabin. After another night’s rest, we climbed up again to the Nublet. Filip made a try at the higher vantage of the Nub, but gave up. We came back in time to pack up and ready for the helicopter. The pilot took us up, but took a less direct path in order to search for a hiker reported injured somewhere. Sometimes we seemed to be making close approaches to peaks and ridges. From above we could see range after range of mountains, into the infinite distance, for this was a great ocean of mountains, into which you could throw a dozen Switzerlands and lose them. We had seen but a tiny, insignificant corner of it. And that was too big for us to grasp, too beautiful to find words for.
I am profoundly grateful that I was born, grew up, and live in this country, which has given me a wealth of beauty and a feeling of freedom that not even vermin like Prime Minister Harper can take away from me.
Filip’s Facebook page has better photographs. He has a better camera and is a better photographer.
(Edwards 1963) The Pink Panther
(Corman 1959) A Bucket of Blood
(Adams & Nelson 2013) Alexander’s Lost World: Ep.1 ― Explorations of an Ancient Sea
(Adams & Nelson 2013) Alexander’s Lost World: Ep.2 ― Mother of All Cities
(Adams & Nelson 2013) Alexander’s Lost World: Ep.3 ― Alexandria on the Oxus
(Adams & Nelson 2013) Alexander’s Lost World: Ep.4 ― City of the Lady Moon
(Adams & Nelson 2013) Alexander’s Lost World: Ep.5 ― Land of the Golden Fleece
(Adams & Nelson 2013) Alexander’s Lost World: Ep.6 ― Source of Civilisation
(Payet & Franco 1986) Golden Temple Amazons [Les amazones du temple d’or]
(Marcel 1983) Prisoners of the Lost Universe
(Mesa 1995) Galaxis
27027. (Philopoctus de Caserta) En remirant vo douce pourtraiture
27028. (Henri Dutilleux) Timbres, espaces, mouvement, ou ‘La nuit étoilée’ Part 1
27029. (Iron Butterfly) Heavy
27030. (Adam & the Ants) “Deutscher Girls” [from Derek Jarman’s Jubilee soundtrack]
27031. (Géry de Ghersem) Missa Ave Virgo Sanctissima
27032. (Duke Ellington) Buffet Flat
27033. (Kambarkan Folk Ensemble) “Jolughabuz az kündö [We Will Meet Soon]”
27034. (Antje Duvekot) New Siberia
27035. (Adam and the Ants) Live at the Roundhouse, 1978
27036. (Toumani Diabaté & Ballaké Sissoko) New Ancient Strings
27037. (Annibale Padovano) Messe à 24 voix
27038. (Platters) Four Platters and One Lovely, Vol.8
27039. (Jacobus Gallus Corniolus) Missa Super Sancta Maria
26168. (Catherine Freeman & Deborah Mailman) Going Bush — Adventures Across
. . . . . Indigenous Australia
26169. (Aditya Adhikari & Bhaskar Gautam) Impunity and Political Accountability in Nepal
26170. (Mario Alinei) The Celtic Origin of Lat. rota and Its Implications for the Prehistory of
. . . . . Europe [article]
26171. (Martin Gilens) Testing Theories of American Politics: Elites, Interest Groups, and
. . . . . Average Citizens [article]
26173. (Joseph Csicsila) John S. Tuckey’s Mark Twain and Little Satan [article]
26174. (John Sutton Tuckey) Mark Twain and Little Satan: The Writing of The Mysterious
. . . . . Stranger
26175. (Li Liu) The Chinese Neolithic — Trajectories to Early States
26176. (Sheridan Le Fanu) The Murdered Cousin [story]
26177. (Barbara Yorke) Kings and Kingdoms of Early Anglo-Saxon England
Some famous books are obvious masterpieces, most have a mixture of merits and flaws, but a few are just plain weird. In the last category, few would hesitate to place Mark Twain’s Mysterious Stranger. Even attempting to find and read a copy can be a confusing task. Twain’s last novel existed in a number of fragmentary, unfinished versions, written in between 1897 and 1908. None were published in his lifetime. His literary executor, Albert Bigelow Paine, and Frederick Duneka, an editor at Harper & Brothers, cobbled together a version and published it in 1916. This is the version that became known to the public. I have just reread this 1916 version in its original edition, The Mysterious Stranger — A Romance by Mark Twain with Illustrations by N.C.Wyeth [shown at left]. Wyeth’s illustrations add greatly to the pleasure. He was one of the greatest of book illustrators in a period that boasted Kay Nielson, Howard Pyle, Akseli Gallen-Kallela, Edmund Dulac and Arthur Rackham. However, this edition took extraordinary liberties with Twain’s work, a fact which was not made plain until 1963, when John S. Tucker published Mark Twain and Little Satan: The Writing of The Mysterious Stranger. Twain had first attempted the story in 1897, leaving an untitled fragment [now called the St. Petersburg Fragment]. Between 1897 and 1900, Twain produced a more substantial manuscript which he called The Chronicle of Young Satan. In 1898, he produced a short and much very different text which he called Schoolhouse Hill, incorporating elements from the first two. Finally, between 1902 and 1908, Twain produced an almost complete version which he titled No. 44, the Mysterious Stranger: Being an Ancient Tale Found in a Jug and Freely Translated from the Jug. Tucker’s scholarship revealed that Paine and Duneka had relied primarily on the earlier Chronicle of Young Satan, had removed substantial portions, changed names, characters, added bits written by themselves, and pasted the last chapter of Twain’s final version onto the pastiche. None of these extreme alterations was acknowledged, an act of literary vandalism and fraud that went uncorrected until the University of California Press published three of the original manuscripts in 1969. No.44, the Mysterious Stranger, Twain’s final version, did not see popular publication until 1982, and I have finally read this authoritative text.
It reveals a work even more peculiar than the 1916 version. The story is set in the year 1490, in a fictional Austrian village. The narrator is a sixteen-year-old village boy named August Feldner, an apprentice in a print-shop. Twain, who was himself a printer’s apprentice in Hannibal, Missouri when he was a boy, fills the narrative with the arcana of the printing trade. The print shop’s master is a sympathetic character, but there are several villains: the master’s shrewish and scheming wife, a fraudulent magician-alchemist, and a persecuting priest. The apprentices, among whom August counts for little, are a mixed bag of characters, but all are obsessed with the perquisites and pecking order of the trade. Twain takes every occasion to demonstrate the superstitious and credulous mentality of the time, using his well-honed satirical style. But he also evokes the innocence of childhood and the humble pleasures or village life. Twain began writing this version while he was staying in a small Swiss village, which he likened to Hannibal in his diary. Into this fictional community there suddenly arrives a mysterious stranger, a boy apparently of August’s age, bedraggled, seeking food and shelter, for which he offers to work. When asked his name, he gives it as “Number 44, New Series 864,962.” Twain dwells on the boy’s bewitching beauty. Befriending August, and taking him into his confidence, he reveals himself as an “angel”, in fact a relative of Satan himself (Satan, of course, being the rebel angel), and existing outside of space and time. He communicates telephathically with August, teaches him how to make himself invisible, brings him articles from the future, and whisks him to mountain tops and China in an instant. They travel to the past. He also shows August humanity’s horrors, including the burning alive of a “witch”, the tragic lives of the poor, and the grim results of alternate time-lines of history. He seems utterly oblivious to August’s notions of propriety, piety, and ethics. When No.44’s diligence earns him a position as apprentice, the other apprentices go on strike in resentment, sabotaging an urgent printing job. No.44 conjures up an army of dopplegangers who do the work, and there is a comic battle in which each character fights his own duplicate. Finally, No.44 is burnt as a witch, only to reappear to August and explain to him that:
“Nothing exists; all is a dream. God — man — the world, — the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars: a dream, all a dream, they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space — and you!”… “And you are not you — you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence, I am but a dream — your dream, creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me….”
He explains that human ideas are self-evidently absurd, such as a belief in “a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people, and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who creates man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man’s acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor abused slave to worship him!…”
It’s no wonder that Twain considered the book unpublishable. And it’s not surprising that it was written in the shadow of tragedy. Of the three daughters that Twain doted on, one died of meningitis in 1896, at the age of twenty-four, another drowned in a bathtub in 1909. Earlier, his only son had died of diptheria when but a toddler. Olivia, his wife of thirty-four years, to whom he was utterly devoted, died after a protracted illness while they were in Italy. Twain had plenty of reason to be bitter. This strange novel embodies, in one way or another, all of his life-long obsessions, from his fascination with childhood, and with the Middle Ages, to his paring of dual characters, one “normal” and the other a kind of pagan spirit — Tom and Huck mutated into August and #44. His hatred of injustice and religious hypocrisy are in there in spades. But most of all, the novel dwells on the puzzle of suffering and the multi-faceted nature of consciousness. All Twain’s doubts and torments are resolved in a bizarre kind of metaphysical solipsism. I don’t think, however, that this should be taken as a declaration of Twain’s actual belief. Twain was a Menippean writer, given to playing out contradictory schemata of the world in the form of satires, melodramas and burlesques. But there is no doubt about his using this instrument to deal with personal anguish.
In the same year that the recovered text reached general publication, a small film production company made a reasonably faithful cinematic version of the story. This is one of the oddest “family films” (for it was marketed as such) ever made. No.44’s final speech, blasphemous by any Christian standards, is in the film, which would nowadays make it non grata in the U.S., even though it probably voices the disenchantment of many modern Americans. It was filmed in Austria. Production values were low-end, but adequate. August was played by Chris Makepeace, a Canadian child actor who had briefly been successful in the comedy Meatballs. No.44 was played by Lance Kerwin, a hard-working juvenile television actor. The casting was perfect. Makepeace’s naïve persona and Kerwin’s mischievous one fit the story well. Ironically, Kerwin later became a drug addict, then found religion.
26166.  (Mark Twain) The Mysterious Stranger [ill. N.C. Wyeth] [1916 Harper Edition]
[not same as Eseldorf version [Diary of Young Satan] at 22281 or No.44 version]
26167. (Mark Twain) No.44, the Mysterious Stranger [Mark Twain Project text]
26173. (Joseph Csicsila) John S. Tuckey’s Mark Twain and Little Satan [article]
26174. (John Sutton Tuckey) Mark Twain and Little Satan: The Writing of The Mysterious Stranger
(Nasr 2005) Shadows in the Dark: The Val Lewton Legacy
(Tourneur 1942) Cat People
(Rushton 2013) Time Team: Ep.259 ― The Forgotten Gunners of WWI
(Moore 1963) Perry Mason: Ep.191 ― The Case of the Devious Delinquent
(Buchanan 1966) Curse Of The Swamp Creature
(Leder 1998) Deep Impact
(Rushton 2013) Time Team: Ep.260 ― Brancaster, Norfolk — Brancaster
*(Trevorrow 2015) Jurassic World
(Allward 2013) Time Team: Ep.261 ― Ely, Cardiff — A Capital Hill
(Rae 1978) Laserblast
27004. Didjeridoo: Musique aborigène d’Australie
27005. (Offspring) The Offspring
27006. (Kassia) Doxazomen sou Christe
27007. (Kassia) Ek rizis agathis
27008. (Kassia) O synapostatis tyrannos
27009. (Kassia) O Phariseos
27010. (Kassia) O Vasilevs tis doxis Christos
27011. (Kassia) I Edessa
27012. (Kassia) Tin pentachordon lyran
27013. (Kassia) Igapisas theophore
27014. (Kassia) Yper ton Ellinon
27015. (Kassia) I en polles amarties
27016. (Kassia) Pelagia
27017. (Kassia) Tou stavrou sou I dynamis
27018. (Kassia) Olvon lipousa patrikon
27019. (Kassia) Petron ke Pavlon
27020. (Kassia) Isaïou nyn tou prophitou
27021. (Kassia) I ton lipsanon sou thiki
27022. (Kassia) Avgoustou monarchisantos
27023. (Kassia) Christina martys
27024. (Fela Kuti) Koola Lobitos: The ’69 L.A. Sessions
27025. (Suede) Dog Man Star
27026. (Victor Uwaifo) Guitar-Boy Superstar 1970–76